Page 22 of Dark Ugly Places

Bambi

Bambi sits alone, tapping the edge of the linen tablecloth, replaying what the photographer told her earlier today.

“Your breasts are sinking,” he had said. Well, not her breasts, actually. It’s her chest, to be specific. He said she was getting that concave look that you see women get, and then called the makeup artist over to see if she could do anything.

When he said it, Bambi smiled and laughed breezily, then posed for another shot, her stomach tense and knotted with frustration and perhaps too many days of living on cucumbers and water. She was never a runway model, but still, they had asked her to drop ten pounds, and there are consequences … like a sinking chest.

“There’s nothing you can do, aside from getting a boob job or a lift,” the makeup artist told her. “Try not to take it personally, honey.” Bambi shrugged it off. They worked her for another two hours before it was time to wrap and meet Whitney for their lunch date.

While she waits, Bambi orders something light from the menu at the Fern—a spinach salad and an iced tea. She waves off the waiter, and he looks down her top, probably noticing her chest sinking. Men notice these things. She’s thinner than most of the women she sees. Bambi is happy with this fact, but it doesn’t register as happiness within her for some reason. Most things don’t register as happiness within her for some reason.

It’s a brisk autumn day, but Whitney arrives in a too-short summer dress carrying Buster, her Chihuahua, in her oversized Louis Vuitton. “Oh my God, so sorry,” she says, sitting down, her sunglasses still on. “Doheny was a bitch.” Whitney gives her the once-over and leans in for a double air kiss.

“It’s fine. I already ordered.”

Whitney hangs her bag over the chair and brings Buster onto her lap. His tiny frame shivers as though he’s cold. Whitney signals a waiter and orders an omelet and a Diet Coke.

“So, tell me,” she starts, laying a hand across the table toward Bambi. “How are you? I mean, after that tweet? It’s like, what the fuck? Am I right?”

Bambi nods, her stomach growling. “She’s lying,” Bambi manages. “Jason said the whole thing was choreographed. It’s B.S.”

Whitney tilts her head in mock sympathy. “Bambi, do you really think she would lie about something like that? I mean, why would she?”

“To get exactly what she got. More attention.” She sips her iced tea, bitter, too cold on her teeth. “Jason says it’s good publicity for the film.”

“Well, whatever.” Whitney glances at the waiter with irritation as he places their food in front of them, interrupting her conversation. “I would be pissed, is all I’m saying.”

Bambi stays quiet. After all, this was why she married Jason to begin with. Fame has its necessary sacrifices, doesn’t it?

“You guys are going to Kim and Bruce’s opening, though, right?”

“Yeah. Jason is doing them a big favor, honestly. Just being seen there should give them months of business.”

Whitney laughs, high-pitched and sudden, as though cameras are still following her around the way they did during her blip of reality TV fame. “Have you seen the place? It’s a dive.”

Bambi nods and swallows the small bite of spinach she’s been chewing on.

It’s plainer than she remembers, and of course, all she can smell are the French fries from a neighboring table. She picks at the spinach and finds a few pieces of arugula. Cheap, she thinks and pushes the plate away, ignoring her hunger as she’s taught herself to do.

How is it possible to be lonelier in LA than she was in Manhattan? In New York, at least there were other models, even if the friendships were surface-level only. They were all transplants like her that knew what it meant to struggle, to have nothing, and to become a commodity—just a face and a body that could be used to sell clothes, makeup, jewelry, swimwear. But that was seven years ago, when Bambi was just twenty-two, still young enough to be considered in her prime but experienced enough to know what she was doing in front of the camera.

After moving to LA, she met Whitney at one of the boutiques on Sunset, and Whitney quickly recognized her as Jason’s new girlfriend. She invited her for a coffee at her house in the Hills. “Don’t take it personally if it doesn’t work out,” she told her. “I’m sure you know that Jason Redfern has somewhat of a reputation.”

“I think we’re different,” Bambi answered. “I’m different.”

Now Bambi sits twirling her wedding ring, watching the carats glimmer and wondering if it’s still true.

“How’s Lucita working out?”

“She’s great,” Bambi replies and takes a long sip of tea. “She does everything I ask—well, everything that Jason asks, honestly.”

Whitney frowns. “Oh, don’t worry. They’re all like that. It’s a cultural thing. They listen to men more.”

“Seriously? Is that true?” In New York, Bambi could never afford help, and besides, her apartment was so small and minimal that she could clean it herself in about an hour.

“Uh-huh. Look, she’s as good as gold—you just have to keep on top of her and tell her what you want.” Whitney leans in. “Sometimes they get lazy, you know?”

“I don’t get that vibe,” Bambi says, using the expression she learned after moving to LA. “She’s always busy, but it’s more that I can’t really trust her to do things for me, you know?”